From the Windows
by Hedgi
Summary: Set during the last two seasons, snapshots. Barry had to get on that roof somehow, and for all he's come to the rescue of his family and friends frequently, he's saved others, too. They remember. Or: The story of the luckiest window washer in Central City
**From The Windows**

* * *

Connor Ramos-Rivera had never regretted staying in Central city, even after the explosion. His Ma had tried to get him to come home, but rent was surprisingly cheap here, and he had a decent job. Window washing wasn't glamourous, but it paid the bills. It was a comfortable enough life, even after Metahumans showed up. He switched to online banking, checked the weather often, and carried a first aid kit just about everywhere.

After the first (and last, thanks, Ma) time he almost died, he was more committed to staying in town than ever. After all, if his window-washing platform got blown up or malfunctioned in Opal city, who exactly was going to save him? Here, there was the Flash, and not just him, either. Yeah, there were a lot of fights, but there was danger everywhere, not just from Metahumans. He'd been hanging by fingertips and a red streak had gotten him to safety before anyone else might have. Anyone else would have been too late.

(He read later, months later, an account of a Metahuman who had died the same week as the bombing, the same week he'd narrowly avoided death. He couldn't hate her now. Just wasn't right, people being used and abused for something they couldn't help. He was one of the first to sign a Petition in her honor, protection rights for Metas. It might be the only way to thank the man-in-red who had saved his life. Besides, her smile looked like Marisol's, and anyone who smiled like his baby sister's, well.)

* * *

He washed windows. It was what he did, night after night, and damn if it didn't give him the best view of the city. He'd watch the lights, gold and red and green, reflecting in the polished glass, and if he looked careful, he'd see the lightning, someone racing through the streets. At Christmas, there was a red light joining the gold, hot and angry, and Connor found himself mouthing a prayer and crossing himself, hoping for help for the man who had saved him, once. The Flash would never know his name, he'd saved so many, but still. One of those saved mentioned it once in line for coffee, as the Flash wooshed past and left a generous tip. Some grumbled about "cutting" and "wait your turn" but Conner never minded. It was a small price to pay.

"He saved me once," the pretty girl said. "Someone threw my car off the dam road. He saved me."

"He saved me, too." Connor pointed up. "I fell. He caught me."

"Never felt safer," the girl said, and shared a table with him.

* * *

He washed windows, let them dry in the summer air, some of them new, replaced after the Singularity thing had torn apart the world. Sometimes, if he was lucky, sitting on the platform with its triple checked rigging, he'd see the blur through another window, working, like they were the only two in the city at this late hour. It was a comforting thought. He wondered about the hero, who ran so fast, but still somehow seemed—tired. He had to be, working as much as he did. Connor wondered what he did for a living. Maybe he sold tires, or pushed papers at an office, or worked for a law firm. Maybe he owned a business, or taught high school students, or delivered newspapers. He played the Wondering game with himself. The Flash was a hero, but he was also a person. Did he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Sisters, brothers? Hobbies? Maybe it was wrong to guess, but Connor did so anyway. He wondered if the Flash had always liked Running. If the Flash liked cats, or hamsters, what he thought of pigeons.

( _Flash Saves Drowning Squirrel from Storm Drain_ was as close an answer he'd get, he figured. The article was about more than that, but cute squirrel pictures were good clickbait.)

* * *

He washed windows, into the fall, saving up money. Coffee dates with Lottie were more frequent, now, and he had started noticing rings in jewelry stores. One night in November, the gold gleam that he was so used to seeing was followed by blue, over taken.

It was beautiful, breathtaking, the Flash and the Whoever It Was racing, light trails entwining and leaving blurs on his retinas. Still, dread curled in his gut, a crotchety old cat, stiff and unwilling to move. He let the water and soap sit, his hand slack around the scrubber handle, breathless. The lights danced across town, and Connor was glad he was working the Mercury Building tonight, one of the tallest. He could see the light show, an audience of one. Blue and gold, gold and blue, until the Flash's familiar lightning winked out.

When he got home, an hour before Dawn, he called Lottie. She was awake, had seen the news footage. The Flash might be dead. How could their hero be dead, without their chance to thank? He had saved so many, when was their turn to repay the life-debt?

When he saw the streak again, bold as ever, he called Lottie on the spot, and the two of them wept. In the window, Connor saw his own face, the streaks his own tears, not stains from a shoddy job, and behind him, a city safe.

* * *

He washed windows, listened to the news, kept an eye on things from his bird's eye view. Winter melted away, the Flash vanished for a day, but returned. Shit stayed weird in Central City, but what else was new? Giant Gorillas, Land Sharks, no different from anything else the last two years had seen. The radio played softly on his platform as he rubbed away grime and pigeon stain, and loved his home for what it was.

The Blue light returned, Zoom, the blogs called him. It. The Demon Thing. Connor found himself praying again, remembering the prayers his Ma had taught him before swapping over to _Dios, por favor,_ repeated repeated repeated.

Lottie's voice shook on the other end of the line when he told her. The Flash had brought them together, he wasn't the only thing that mattered to them, there were other things, other life stories and hobbies and likes that drew them together. But the Flash was why they were still breathing. Still safe.

"I need to see you," Connor said.

They drank hot chocolate and watched the sunrise over a city that was too quiet, too still, somehow.

No one saw the Flash after that night, not for two whole days. Connor looked. He strained for any hint of light flickering. Nothing, Nothing, Nothing.

* * *

He washed windows. He washed windows and watched and hoped. He was setting up for the night, a week after the Blue Light, checking his harness, checking the cables, the brightly light Jitters sign flickering a bit, and he sighed. The static fizz sounded like a thing lost.

"Um. Excuse me," a voice behind him said, and Connor jumped a bit, but turned, keeping his long handled sponge gripped tight. Petty crime was up, after all. As soon as he saw, though, his shoulders dropped. The pole clattered on the ground. Clad in red, the Flash stood in front of him.

"Flash," Connor managed, reverently, his heart thudding. He wanted to say so many things. _You're alive, thank god,_ and _you saved my life once, months ago, thank you,_ and _why are you here, now, talking to me?_

"I—I'm sorry to interrupt, but—I was wondering if you could help me?" He sounded young. Like Lottie's brother, all of 23. Young and nervous. Like he thought Connor might say no.

"Yes, of course, anything," Connor managed, and then, his knees solidifying instead of turning to jello, "Thank you. For—for everything."

"I…" the Flash gave a nod, but shallow, almost a shrug, or a duck of the head. There was the purpling of bruise on his pale skin, visible in the neon light. "I don't think I deserve that."

"You saved my life," Connor hoped he didn't sound eager and annoying. "And my girlfriend's. We've always wanted to say thank you, to—do something. What do you need? Anything."

"I—You're welcome." The Flash smiles then, he smiles like Connor's baby sister too, shy. "I…I need to borrow your lift, just for a few minutes, that's all. I'm meeting someone on the roof."

Connor frowned. He could still see all those nights of lightning, still feel himself slipping and then strong arms holding him and carrying him to safety. "I thought you could run—" he pointed upward, where light pollution stole the stars.

"No. Not anymore." The Flash's voice was bitter, sad. Connor found himself reaching out a hand.

"You will again. You always come back. Here, you know how to work one of these? It's not that hard."

Connor waited below, let the Flash have his meeting. When he came down again, a sad, soft smile on his bruised face.

"Thank you again," Connor said. "From me an' Lottie—She was on the dam, you pulled her from her car before it hit the ground. And I was—"

"You were the window washer. October, not last year but the one before." The Flash's eyes were clear, no lightning sparking, no confusion clouding. They might have been green, or blue, or grey. Connor nodded.

"Thank you," he said, his boy's voice a little more certain now. "You didn't have to do that, help me."

"Neither did you," Connor answered, simply. The Flash nodded and walked back into the shadows, going who-knew-where.

The next morning, on Jitters' rooftop, over hot chocolate, Connor took Lottie's hand in one of his to tell her about the night before. A small grey box rested in his other.

* * *

~shrugs~ Comment if you like.


End file.
